The Seer's Journal
by AberrantBlade
Summary: The tale of how three families changed the destiny of the East... Posted Ch. 2, and finally got the worst bugs out... Please R+R.
1. Disclaimer/Prologue

The Seer's Journal

A Redwall Fanfiction

By John Mitch

Disclaimer: First of all, I seem to have a nasty habit of using names for things that seem a sidestep away from meaning something, or referring to other places, people, things, etc. So let me get this out in the open right now: If there's a name for anyone or anything that rings a bell – say a word with one or two letters changed from something else, or a word meaning something in another language – it's a coincidence. I don't mean to rip off other people's titles and words – it just seems that all the cool words I try to make up are plays on another word that maybe I heard once upon a time.

That said, all characters, places, and events in this story are fictional. That means it didn't – or hasn't – happen(ed). If anything seems familiar to you, congratulations! We're using the same old clichés and stereotypes…or else it's coincidental and unintentional. This is a fanfiction, meaning it's a story based on or inspired by a novel or story someone else wrote – in this case, Brian Jacques' _Redwall_ series. All names, places, events, etc. that appear in his books are, of course, property of the aforementioned author, Brian Jacques. That said, all the other names, places, events, etc. that are not Mr. Jacques' are mine. 

That is not to say you cannot set stories in those locales, write a fanfiction of this story featuring one of my characters, put different characters in the same situation – you just have to ask me first. Also, once you have my permission to use the stuff, I ask that you don't rehash the roles written in this story, and that you don't ram your finished work down my throat. If and when I choose to read it, I will. A simple, single e-mail with the address of the story will be quite sufficient – notice the words 'simple' and 'single'. That means, no 59 e-mails with "READ MY SOTRY! READ MY SOTRY! READ MY SOTRY! READ MY SOTRY! READ MY SOTRY! READ MY SOTRY! READ MY SOTRY!" and a virus attachment. 

Reviews would be appreciated, but keep criticisms constructive; there's nothing like "UR WURDZ SUX!" to kill your credibility with me. I am reasonably sure that you are not Brian Jacques, especially if your e-mail is sent from an AOL address with typos up the yin-yang. I am certain you are not a book publisher – even if you are, I'm not looking for a way to tap into Redwall royalties, and this story is only authorized for use on the internet.

Which brings me to my next, and last point. If you want to post this story on your site, ask me first. I am not that hard to get in touch with! I don't want to see this fic on the same page as "The Hip-Hop Dictionary And Reference Guide: When and When Not To Add '-izz'". Therefore, send me the address for your page when you ask for permission to use the story. I will gladly allow you to use it!…as long as your page is on the level. Most favorable responses, by the way, go out to Redwall fan sites and clubs, So far only the following pages have permission to post it:

www.fanfiction.net

If you see it on any other page at all, e-mail me and confirm that it's legit!

The snow drifted gently down in the dim evening, covering the freshly upturned dirt that now covered the body of this brutal winter's latest victim. There were no Dibbuns out and about, throwing snowballs and making snowmice. In fact, the grounds of Redwall Abbey were bitterly cold and devoid of activity, except for a burly, dusky red squirrel, dressed for the season and peering out across the blindingly white sheet of flat land and trees bent double with a burden of cold powder. The sky was orange with fire as the sun set, at least where snow clouds didn't hover overhead.

At last, this squirrel saw what he was looking for, and let loose with a shrill whistle. A lump in the distance, only slightly less white than the snow, stood and waved to the Redwall sentry. In a trice the squirrel was up and over the wall, landing in a strategically placed snow pile, and racing across the soft crystals of ice, with a lightness of touch and swiftness of paw not often seen, even in other squirrels. Almost in no time, the distance between the two creatures was closed, and the squirrel pounced on the other beast.

They wrestled around in the snow, laughing and exchanging jibes.

"Bless my soul, Zephyr you fat treewalloper, you must be twice as big around as when I saw you last! Found your old stash of hazelnuts, eh?"

"And I hear you found yourself a charming wife, Icefur you sly fox! Why didn't you stop by Redwall to share the good news!" joshed the squirrel.

"Oh, the usual," the silvery fox put it, half-mockingly. "Got a home to build, a family to raise, and a book to find."

"Aw, you're not still on about your father's journal, are you? He probably left it where no one would think to look…like in the river, weighted with rocks."

"I saw him scribble in the dratted thing many times…I just can't remember where he put it." The fox's tone grew sober. "And while we're on the topic of fathers, I heard yours passed on just recently. I thought I might drop in, pay homage to the great creature."

"Aye, hopefully he's in a warmer climate by now. Well, you'll freeze if you pay homage to him tonight, so let's see if we can't get you something hot to drink and someplace warm to sleep tonight."

They slogged off together towards the main gate of Redwall, the path running alongside it and parallel to the snowflakes that drifted down gently. The squirrel pulled on the gate to open it. It wouldn't budge.

"Um," began Zephyr. He pulled harder. Still no luck. "Oh of all the blinkin' luck!" he cried as he realized his folly. "I left the cursed gate locked!" He pounded on the gate, hoping that there would be someone to hear the racket. "Well, I guess there's only one thing for it," he muttered. He gripped the sandstone bricks that formed the wall and began to climb.

The weather chose this moment to turn foul. Where the snow had previously sprinkled down in a lazy, haphazard fashion, it now fairly surged downwards in a blankets, the wind howling mightily and launching a gale powerful enough to flatten the unexpecting squirrel against the wall, destroying his hindpaws' grip on the stones and leaving him to scratch wildly at the wall, until he finally fell straight down into the snow pile.

"Are you all right?" Icefur queried, concerned about his friend's health. Zephyr staggered upright, bleeding from his left footpaw. "Come on," he insisted, putting his arm around the squirrel's shoulders and helping him to walk. "Let's get you to my home."

"Whatever you say, Icey." The squirrel groaned as he limped along. "Of all the luck, I had to leave the gate locked."

Icefur's home consisted of a massive hollowed-out tree trunk that had fallen the previous year and left to rot, until he and his father had traveled from afar to the heart of Mossflower Forest the previous year and settled in to live there, free from the life of danger his homeland had become host to. Now, the windows were dim, but smoke still rose from the rudimentary chimney.

The fox pushed open the door, called out, "Jhera? Are you still up?"

His wife, a pleasantly plain red fox, peered out from their bedroom. "Shhhh. I just got the little ones to sleep." She spoke softly, with an accent unfamiliar to the squirrel. She then noticed the dark red squirrel and came out from around the wall. "Oh, you must be the Zephyr that Icey talks about sometimes. Pleased to meet you. My name is Jhera."

"Pleased to meet you, Miz Jhera. Don't mind me, I had the great idea to climb a wall in a blizzard. Gullible ol' Icefur brought me here because I locked myself out of the Abbey."

"Um, Jhera, could you please get me those dry dock leaves and some binding? Mister Zephyr hurt himself, I want to make sure he can walk by tomorrow."

"Right." She disappeared into the kitchen, reappeared quickly with the dock, the twine, and a badly abused, green-covered book with a timeworn gilded insigne on the front.

"Thank you, dear," murmured Icefur as he took the leaves and twine. Quickly and skillfully he bound the poultice onto the squirrel's foot. "There you go! Stay off the paw and it'll be right as rain by tomorrow – at least, enough so to walk on."

"Thanks, Icey." The squirrel gingerly tested the paw. "Not bad at all."

The silver fox looked up at his wife, who softly hit him on the snout with the green book. "Is this what you were looking for?" she asked with a hint of humor in her soft lilt as she handed the book over.

"Th- th- the journal! Where did you find it?"

"Sitting under the twine and dock and sanicle. Apparently your father used it as a tray for those sort of things, or else it was left there for just this moment."

"Come on, Jhera, how would he kn- knuh- knuh…" Icefur stuttered and trailed off as he opened the book. If it were possible for eyes to go flying out of one's head, Icefur would presently be suffering from that affliction. As it was, he was bug-eyed and tongue-tied from shock.

"What is it, Icey?" Jhera tiptoed to look over her husband's shoulder at what he was staring at. She gasped, looked at Zephyr, looked at the book, looked at the squirrel again. "It's you," she stammered.

"What? It's me, what?" He struggled to reach for the book that shocked the foxes so. What he saw made his jaw drop.

There were eleven small portraits on the first page, five on the left, four on the right, two in-between. And towards the bottom of the page, on the right side, was a small, near-perfect portrait of himself, marred only by the shaky paw of an elderly beast. It was labeled _ZEPHYR TREELEAF_. Connected to his portrait by a vertical line was another portrait of higher quality, having as its subject his father, listing him by his proper name _REDREN TREELEAF_. Again, connected by a line, was a vaguely familiar face labeled _JESAK TREELEAF_, and above that, a small, perfectly lifelike portrait of a savagely painted or tattooed squirrel, whose name was given as _ORRIN TREELEAF_.

On the left side of the paper were five small portraits, but the subjects were not squirrels. Far from it; they appeared to be ferrets.

The top portrait was a testament to Icefur's father's artistic skills, it appeared that the beast named _BLADEMANE_ was about ready to leap from the portrait and slaughter the first beast who moved.

There were two portraits connected to this one, side-by-side; the one on the left was fiercely painted and grinning savagely, the other dour and plain-featured. Their names were _KIRLEN_ and _KARAN_.

Only one line descended from there; apparently Kirlen had not left heirs. Karan did, and his progeny was a handsome young creature listed as _KYLAR_.

The portrait in the bottom left corner was blotted out, the features uncertain and vague, the name illegible. It had gotten wet when it was drawn, or something similar, but one way or another it was indecipherable.

The two in the middle were foxes; _TERBIN_ at the top and _ICEFUR_ at the bottom. All eleven appeared to have been painted at about six seasons of age, except for Orrin and Blademane, who were decidedly older.

Zephyr turned the page, began silently reading the text there, and set the book gently into his lap. "Icey," he began, "you'd better read this." He slowly passed it over to the silver fox, who began reading out loud.

_My dear Icefur-_

_Hopefully you will have the other two with you when you read this. If not, some uncanny force will draw them there. I know this, because I was once the greatest Seer that ever lived. I will be dead when you read this, and so will Redren Treeleaf, and so will Kylar Longtail. You already know Red's son Zephyr, I know; if you haven't already, you will meet Kylar's child soon as well._

_As I said before, I was a Seer. You are descended from a long line of Seer foxes, my boy – but don't strain yourself, your mother was not of the Sok'oi, the Seer clan. As far back as could be seen, your forefathers and mine were servants of the Kings of Highkeep – the mountain castle that was once seat of the Eastern Alliance. You will be confused by now, so I'd better back up a little._

_The Eastern Alliance was, for the longest time, a tight-knit group of clans who set aside their differences, banded together and created a great kingdom where "goodbeast" and "vermin" had no meaning aside from describing those to the West – which, in my opinion, are still a barbaric and overall violent group, no matter how they butter it over._

_Always keep this in mind when reading this, son: No matter how much a beast claims he loves every living creature, they still have ingrown prejudices. Sometimes they never outgrow them._

_The Sok'oi clan was probably the least popular group to join the Alliance. "Never trust a Sok'oi" was the catchphrase of the day. Some of our kin died at the hands of those so-called civilized creatures. It all came to a head when the King of the day, Paedrus, needed to choose an advisor to help guide his kingdom. All the clans and all the groups and everybeast with an agenda to follow tried to take the position, and somebeasts tried to keep them from getting the post while others supported them. As legend has it, King Paedrus chose a Sok'oi for an advisor because they were the only clan everyone hated._

_As it turned out, there was a goodly portion of the tribe who could somewhat predict events before they happened – rainstorms, locusts, the like. As time went on, this prediction-sense turned into some kind of inner eye, or second sight._

_Eventually, there were rumors of an uprising sweeping the countryside. Panic ruled the day. In this time of great peril the Sok'oi came to the King's aid and pinpointed exactly where the attack would take place. This King was not so sensible and ignored the advice. Only through sheer dumb luck did the Alliance win through that day, but it buried many sons and daughters as the price._

_The memory of the loss haunted the King, who appointed a Sok'oi Seer and decreed that each King that was to follow was to appoint one as well. We served well, and the Alliance prospered. Until, however, it was my turn._

_I turn the explanation for my actions over to my journal from those days. Pass this on down your line as far as you can; but never forget to tell your children that looking to the past can only take you so far._


	2. Part One/Chapter 1

Part One

Those Who Seek Death

**-1-**

_Two babes who came so very near_

_As warriors did Dark Forest find_

_From pain, ferret with one claw clear_

_With rage, squirrel with both eyes blind_

_By fate, the doom that brings them here_

_Will forever their families bind._

_The one with the mind so stark_

_Shall never be one with his kind_

_The one with the form so dark_

_Shall a shattered alliance combine._

_Tradition says that only when times of great peril lie on the horizon, does the Seer attain his highest clarity of sight. If this newest vision is indicative of the turmoil ahead, chaos may well envelop us all. I saw the Castle Highkeep falling from its mountain perch upon a burning Lowkeep Village. Beast slaying beast, brother against brother, father and son, friends and loved ones murdering each other. The Alliance fallen: My worst fear._

_And yet there was one place yet untouched by the blight of destruction. It was a wooded grove I recognized from my childhood; the Martyr's Glade, the last stretch of real forest until the Triumphant Plain conquers the sight and numbs the mind._

_Perhaps the where is not as important as the who. Two creatures were clear to me: a ferret and a squirrel. Maybe there were more; the vision was murky in those depths. I cannot say their names leapt to mind, but they were familiar…somehow. They chanted a rhyme that has burned itself into my mind, and I have written it above._

_Now that the thought crosses my mind, perhaps this chaos is not at all far away. It has become impossible to walk the streets of Elmridge or Lowkeep without hearing beast quarreling with beast. Woundings are common now, but killing cannot be far behind._

_The Merkhazh nomad clan is nearby; the Zhaer squirrel clan is not far away. Either event is no large incident by itself – sometimes, it's even a cause for merriment. But ever since that strange rift grew between them, this is a recipe for disaster._

_No matter what the King believes, there will be bloodshed. I don't need Seer's sight to see that._

_Something else – I'm beginning to fear conspiracy among the King's other faithful servants. Spite, fear, and hatred, unbridled hatred, follow me everywhere I go now. The questions spill forth: Do they intend nothing? Will they do anything? Have I given cause for grievance? Has the old propaganda set in again? Not even the visions give answers. There is a foul stench in the air, one of fear, hate, and revulsion. Aimed at me because I'm a fox. These cursed labels were to have lost meaning eons ago!_

_One thing is certain. I may see tomorrow in my mind's eye, but if I stay here much longer, I may not see tomorrow with my mortal eyes. Unless I can find these two creatures, the ferret and the squirrel, there may never be peace in the east again!_

_I am leaving in the morning, taking only this journal, my staff, and those few provisions I can carry. The sun is setting, and my candles run short. I will write again when I find the chance. King Runderan will be most displeased with my sudden disappearance. So be it. I cannot let the enmity continue!_

_The Seer's Journal_

_As written by Terbin_

_Seer of King Runderan_

The creaking of a door split the silence on the walltops of Highkeep, the castle built upon the west side of Judgment's Gate, the mountain range separating the east of Mossflower Woods and the plains it became from the Forbidden Lands, the land east of the Gate that none dare adventure to – the land of nightmares, they said. Filled with darkness, greed, and hate, the antithesis of what the Alliance was.

Or was supposed to be.

The parapet was empty, save for a single fox on the far west wall, kneeling and muttering arcane spells to himself. The fire in the sky was a mere ember compared to the blazing red of the fox's fur, which waved in the mild breeze like a roaring bonfire in a gale.

Eventually the fox ceased his chanting and tightly screwed his eyes shut, blocking out the world without to glimpse the world within.

"My guide," he intoned, "show me the path I must walk, that I may change that which must not be."

A forceful voice replied inside the fox's head, _"The path you must take is yours to reveal!"_

"Am I to go where none can see?"

_"Your path is longer than it seems, Seer. You seek peace in the east through the actions of the two, yet are the two you seek truly those to bring peace?"_

"Reveal this path to me, my guide. I must know my way," insisted the fox.

_"There is none who can truly see the path you shall take. This much can be told; those who bring peace shall emerge from those who seek death!"_

"Is there nothing else?"

_"Farewell, Seer fox of the Sok'oi!"_

The fox sighed tremendously, panting with his exertions. Tremulously, he reached a paw to his damp face, pulled it away to find blood trails upon his pads. He had been crying blood.

A dim glow lit up the horizon over the hill, though the sun had set just minutes ago. The camp of grim-faced squirrels had a glorious premonition what was going on – the Merkhazh were camped for the night, effectively sitting ducks. Bows were strung, javelins fire-hardened, slings loaded, blades sharpened, faces painted. 

The Zhaer Clan was going to war.

Far east of Redwall Abbey, Mossflower Forest slowly thinned of trees, became an uneven plain, and sharply soared upwards in a near-vertical mountain range – impassable to the unprepared. The cliffs loomed like the shadow of death over the squirrel camp, backed as it was against the base of the mountains.

The Zhaer Clan was going to war.

A score of able-bodied beasts prepared their weapons for the coming slaughter. No doubt, the vermin camp wouldn't go anywhere for the night, so no time was wasted with scouts. Just warriors.

For the Zhaer Clan was going to war.

The ringleader, one Orrin Treeleaf, raged at the kind of beasts getting refuge in Merkhazh bands; washed-up corsairs, ex-hordebeasts, and general riffraff that drifted in from the west. That, besides his vendetta against one ferret in particular, made tonight's raid irresistible.

He stood still while his second-in-command, Stina, paraded in front of his twenty warriors. "Zhaer clan gonna fix dem vermin up good!" she screeched in an awkward voice.

"Yarr!" his clan replied as a chorus.

"Tonight we gonna spare nobeast! Male, maid, child…Fix 'em!"

"Yarr!"

"Give no quarter! If 'e ain't a Zhaer, fix 'em!"

"Yarr!"

Treeleaf stepped forward, the yellow-painted clan markings on his face visible even in the dark. "We finish dis grudge here an' now! Who are we?"

The reply was heard round the plain. _"ZHAER CLAN!!"_

One moment, it was silent in the Merkhazh camp of nomad ferrets, weasels, rats, and other assorted "vermin". The next, fire arrows blanketed the village where only darkness had been before. The screaming began almost immediately, as the Zhaer warriors swooped down over the hill, hacking and swinging and shooting. Blademane was giving orders to a subordinate when he heard a familiar voice shriek out, _"Blood for blood!"_ He never saw the beast that crushed his skull with a swung slingstone.

The few Merkhazh who managed to run were quickly brought down by Zhaer bows. The few Merkhazh who managed to hide were quickly forced out by Zhaer pikes. The many Merkhazh who managed to die were gathered into a pile and burnt.


	3. Part One/Chapter 2

**-2-**

_Hardly had I set paw out of my room that I hear everybeast in earshot screaming "Massacre! Massacre!" Apparently, a Zhaer troop slaughtered a camp of Merkhazh nomads last night. And naturally, I was sleeping like a rock in my bed. Sometimes being a sound sleeper is a disadvantage._

_King Rundaran asks for my presence, so I must be brief. I shall try to convince him to change his attitude towards this newest travesty and the changes it heralds. If I cannot move him, I will go on with my plans to leave the castle in search of the two._

_The Seer's Journal_

_As written by Terbin_

_ Seer of King Runderan_

"Morning, Miz Reeso," the seer fox mumbled as he trudged past the midwife mouse, dressed in simple peasant's clothes with only the insigne of the royal family decorating an otherwise plain creature.

"Good morning to you, sir Seer," she replied pleasantly. "Off to see our brave leader?"

"Yes, actually. I'm going to try to get the mountain torn down so I don't get sick every time I look out the window." The completely deadpan response set the petite mouse to giggling. Finally, Terbin himself couldn't contain the laughter any longer, and he broke out chuckling.

"Hehehehaho, ask him to get the birds to walk, so they don't get all high and mighty, hahahaha!"

"Hahahah, or have him tie the moles' claws together so they can't undermine the Alliance."

"Hohoho, that's a good one," she guffawed. "Or tell the foxes to stop using the ol' noggin, so- er-" she realized what she was saying and trailed off.

Terbin gave a sad kind of grin, like one who knew where a bad joke was going. "Righto, I'll just go see Cap'n of the Guard and have the thing cut off. Cheerio!" he turned, faking good cheer.

"Oh, don't even joke about that, Mister Terbin!" the mouse scolded, suddenly dead serious. "They caught those terrible Zhaer barbarians this morning, and our good King Runderan was speaking of execution! Beheading for the lot of them!"

Terbin was impressed. Zhaer had a reputation for dodging capture, so they'd either been trapped or betrayed. "Miz Reeso, I've known Rundy all my life, and I don't think he'd do something as brash as that. He'll probably wind up setting them to menial work, or exiling them to the west."

The mouse, though a good three heads shorter than the fox, still managed to apply a strong headlock around the seer's neck. "Aye, and I was the nurse who watched you two play. Shall I bathe you and send you to bed without supper again?"

"Yah, stoppit! Gerroff! Limpy fumblepaws, King Rundy can learn a lesson in discipline from you!" The unlikely pair, the fox and the mouse, laughed as they wrestled and recalled happier days.

None of the good mood went with the seer as he entered the throne room of Highest Almighty King Runderan VIII. It was a throwback to the days of conquest and war; tapestries of battle scenes lined the wall, competing with torch sconces for space covering the damp stones that formed the hall. No amount of light, heat, or sun could make the chamber any less gloomy, but Runderan didn't mind. If anything, the fat little vole…enjoyed it.

And truly, Runderan was fat and little, compared to a fox, say, or an otter, or even a regular vole. The popular jibe of the day was that Runderan was "too round to run", which wasn't far off the mark – he rode in a palanquin when he traveled at all.

The royal vole lay in his palanquin as he spoke, which came out irritatingly high-pitched and nearly plaintive. "…I'm telling you, that unfortunate conflict last night was an isolated incident. It surely doesn't reflect the public opinion toward your nomads."

There were two others in the throne room, listening to the king's Utopian drivel. The Merkhazh representative, a heavily scarred, old fox from the mountains far to the northwest, replied with nary a drip of spite in his voice. "Perhaps. That still doesn't revive three-and-a-half score beasts we needed for farming new land. Or the five-and-twenty helpless children and mothers slaughtered for fun. Or bring back the knowledge and expertise of Blademane, the militia master."

The other, a red-furred maiden representing the Zhaer leadership, laughed in his face. "You rabble, farmers? You'd drop your rake for a sword and your crops for a horde in a heartbeat. True, Zhaer council never approved Treeleaf's actions. But we support his actions!"

Runderan broke in. "N-now, no need to use such language, Keera. Now, uh, Gorefleck, was it?"

The white fox took it in stride. "Garflik, if you please. I left that name long ago."

"Even though you still slaughter under it when the mood strikes you."

"That w-was uncalled for, Madam." Runderan finally noticed his seer standing at the door. "Please enter, friend Terbin. Fellow beasts, this is my loyal seer Terbin, of the Sok'oi line of mystic foxes."

Garflik huffed into his tunic. "Mystic, huh. Mystic my tail."

Keera finally agreed with the mountain fox on at least one issue.

"My Lord," intoned the seer, "I see and hear much of what goes on here and elsewhere. There is a party of raiders in the woods south of Urthtroff, across the river and armed with little more than slings and daggers. And speaking of daggers…" he gestured to the Zhaer squirrelmaid. "The dagger sheathed on your thigh. Set it on the ground and kick it away."

Garflik was irate. "A concealed weapon at a summit! I protest, my lord, this is sufficient proof for assassination charges!"

Terbin turned to face the Merkhazh on his right, before he watched the squirrel drop her blade. "Same goes for you, friend. That stone spearhead in your bracer, kick it away."

Keera stabbed her dagger at the seer as his back was turned to her.

CRACK!

The squirrelmaid collapsed on the floor, her snout crushed to pulp by the staff concealed in the seer's cloak. The dagger quivered in the floor, stopped by the thin metal plate he wore beneath his cloak.

"Remember well this day, for that wound shall never heal properly. Every time you look down your crooked nose, think of me, and thank me for straightening your path. Oh, and watch your step."

"Scum! Vermin! You'll regret this!" She tried to storm off, not noticing the unobtrusive end table lying in her path. She screeched as she hit the floor, landing on her already broken nose.

"Stay, or you forfeit your choice in punishment!" the seer muttered.

"You foul monster! Have you no compassion?" demanded the Merkhazh fox.

"She would have had none had she stabbed you."

The squirrel retreated, after making a few weak threats to the seer fox. Runderan stuttered, "W-w-wasn't that a bit much, Terbin?"

"Had the meeting not gone her way, she would have stabbed Master Garflik and might have gone for you next, Sire." The seer closed his eyes. "I know not why I see these things the way I do. Perhaps it is the fate of my family to look upon the world thus. So be it. Fate cannot be changed by mortal paws…" He opened one eye wide and smiled. "Or can it?"

Garflik was still unimpressed. "I still fail to see the point of this mumbo-jumbo you're pulling out of your hat. If, perhaps, we could go on to business…"

"Oh," murmured the vole, "of course. My apologies."

"The prisoners," began the Merkhazh fox to the Royal Court of Highkeep, "Orrin Treeleaf and a group of Zhaer Clan squirrels, rushed and slaughtered a camp of my brethren, the Merkhazh nomads. There were no survivors left over to tell us what happened, but the amount of Zhaer-marked weapons about makes it a certainty that they were responsible. Among the dead was a true master of defensive strategy, Blademane, a ferret from the southlands who'd renounced his former calling as a hordebeast. At least, so he said. It was no secret that he retained the thirst for blood and conflict that made him renowned as a fighter in the south. After a truly violent skirmish with another ferret several months ago, we sent an emissary south to find the real truth about Blademane.

"The message returned shocked us. Blademane had been no regular hordebeast – he had been Hordemaster! Leader of the army terrorizing the south! He'd taken his horde up against a camp of badgers, and got the whole lot killed. When we confronted him with his crimes, he broke down. We could not press any further, else we would be breaking the First Principle."

"The First what?"

"'Once a crime is truly repented, the wound of it need not be reopened.' That is the First Principle of the Merkhazh. May I continue?"

"Uh, certainly."

"What we did do is question him whether or not he was trying to turn the Merkhazh into his own army, which he vehemently denied. So we let him be.

"Then he started to get in trouble again. He was – down below, I believe, inside the merchant village at Lowkeep. The Zhaer squirrels were performing their usual mischief, until they dropped a foul, uh, concoction of their own making, from the roof onto Blademane. When he caught the ringleader of the sad, sorry ruffians, he just about broke him in half. I was there to see it. The Zhaer ringleader was Orrin-"

"Treeleaf? So this was-"

"Yes. The beginning of the rivalry. In my opinion, the Zhaer wanted to punish them for the tricks they were pulling but couldn't ignore the insult this interloper thrust upon them. So they began to harass any Merkhazh in sight. A few of the less patrolled city sections became violent. So we pulled all non-essential beasts out of the city, began looking for arable land for farming, to support ourselves.

"Yet the harassment continued. So we formally asked Blademane to form a defense force to shield us from attack." Garflik stopped for breath, absorbing the suspicious looks from the crowd. "Ex-raiders and Corsairs are just fine for attacking, pillaging and raiding," he explained, "but these trainees were born to nomad ways and strictures. They were brought directly into the Merkhazh culture of peace, didn't know the first thing about combat. The Council thought…it might keep them from killing unnecessarily. All it did, really, was get them killed faster."

"Garflik of the Merkhazh!" rumbled the High Justice of the Royal Court.

"My Lord."

"Stand before your tribe and unanimously decide punishment for these criminals."

"Yes, sir." The scarred white fox turned to his brethren. "Fellow Merkhazh, how shall we punish these criminals?"

The replies were varied in severity and mode of punishment, but equal in volume and in outcome: execution.

The courtroom was shaped much like an oblong bowl, with seats for nobles, royalty, and clansbeasts lining the south wall and the High Justice's stand on the northernmost extent of the oval. The stand that Garflik stood at was mere feet from the High Justice. Normally, the stand faced the High Justice, but in this case there was the possibility of a precision blade toss while a back was turned.

For the captives were held in a cage at the center of the room, open for all to see, Nearly as high as the ceiling, the cage was constructed of heavy iron wrought in a unique fashion – nearly decorative if it were not used for the purpose it was.

Orrin Trealeaf and his fellow Zhaer squirrels stood clutching the bars of this cage, detached and inert. In the seats, one noble whispered to another, "How could so few slay so many?" To which the other replied, "Zhaer squirrels are as good as twelve others in combat. They're as fierce as badgers when their blood's up!"

A long time passed in which the nomads deliberated in whispers, and when one of them contributed another idea, there was a thunderous clamor of disgust, rage, and distrust. Apparently the idea gained momentum, and eventually a consensus was reached.

"High Justice, we have reached a punishment!"

"Very well, present your intent to the approval of the Court."

"Firstly, imprisonment in Highkeep dungeons for Zhaer Clan regulars involved!"

"Granted." The crowd was certainly expecting execution for them, so this was a little bit of a surprise to them – surprise, and somewhat of a letdown.

"Second, execution by beheading for Zhaer Clan officers involved!"

"Granted." There was a muted cheer in the audience.

"Lastly, the permanent indentureship to King Runderan's service of Orrin Treeleaf!"

"Denied. This is a careless and foolish proposition, and I want to know why you brought it up."

"Treeleaf is dangerous, my Lord. He willingly ambushed and slaughtered a camp of our brethren for the sake of settling a grudge. We wish not to have him go free, yet death or imprisonment is ill recompense for the lives he has taken."

"A camp you freely admitted was for training soldiers."

"Sentries, my Lord. Defense, not attack."

"This is a realm of peace," interjected a noble from the seats. "What need have you of sentries?"

Garflik almost exploded. "When there is scum like Treeleaf and his radical brethren plotting to do us in, we must defend ourselves! Can't you see? The lazy days of peace and harmony are gone, no more! For us nomads, they never were there in the first place! Sit around a dying campfire in a bitter snowstorm, watching your best friend die of starvation! Hold lance at your side as you wait out a raiding party of citybeasts looking to cleanse us scum from the earth! Look out upon the vast plains and forests, hills and mountains, and realize that there is not one inch you can call home! That is the life of the Merkhazh, born in despair and wading through the foul mess called life." The white fox nearly broke down. "It's hard to go on sometimes. To be accused, shunned, and unwelcome wherever we go…we have no hearths to warm ourselves with, no friends to call upon, no home to retreat to. We eke out a living that wouldn't be fit for the poorest beggar in the streets of Elmridge-" he threw a paw towards the caged squirrels – "And then we are ambushed, slaughtered by ruffians who could care less of our plight! My Lords and Ladies, we cry out for a life worth living, but seek only justice. I, personally, want that – that – that monster to fight for survival every day, much like we are forced to!

"And yet, we refuse to drag even the most bitter criminal to our level. I, and many of my brethren, have set aside their desire to see Treeleaf die screaming, to instead bring him to his knees and show him the folly of his hatred – in short, to bring him back in line with the Credo of the Alliance: 'Thou art no less a creature than I.'"

"Orrin Trealeaf, you and your fellow prisoners are guilty of that most heinous of crimes; slaying your fellow creature in cold blood. You yourself are to be spared, and for that you should truly thank those you have wronged, the nomad clan of the Merkhazh. Your accessories in the crime will not be so lucky; death or dungeons now look them in the face.

"The Merkhazh have truly expressed great mercy towards you. I am certain that, had your clan been the one wronged, you would be punished by death, and I surely would have granted that request.

"I, nor any other in my position, will ever allow you any nearer to the king than sight range, and that will remain final.

"So the question remains: how shall you pay for your crimes? The mines could always use strong backs, but I understand murderers do not last very long in those places.

"So, the cities, then. There will never be a place for you in the streets. The mountain roads are treacherous in chains. The shops would never allow you to work there. The magnitude of your crimes is limiting the places you will be placed."

"The only place I can imagine you would be allowed to work in is as the gatekeeper's assistant. Secluded, not much in the way of interaction, only work to keep you busy."

"That is your punishment. You will work in the south gate until the official gatekeeper tells me you are fit to rejoin our society. You shall live there in the gatehouse upon the wall, and you shall be guarded day and night. There is no escape from there. And, believe me, there will be little chitchat where you're going.

"Long live the King!"

The chorus was loud, spirited, even exuberant. "Long live the King!"

"My Lord." The throne room doors creaked shut.

The King turned in his palanquin. "Ah, Terbin, what can I do for you?"

The blazingly red fox was stone-faced. "You cannot deny now that the violence is increasing, my Lord. This can't possibly be the end of anything. There will be protests, maybe even rioting in the streets. You must see it –"

"Ah, my loyal Seer, you obviously don't understand. This will frighten the populace; they will adhere more strictly to the Credo. They shall love their brethren. You will see."

"My Lord, the visions are becoming clearer. I have seen the castle fall onto Lowkeep, seen it fall as the Alliance will fall if we _don't do something!_"

"You have already stepped far out of line, Seer." The vole's voice was now harsh. "I advise that you curb your tongue before I have the Captain of the Guard cut it out."

Terbin's stony glare turned sinister, cynical. "Perhaps I should tell him that his family will die in chains if he silences me. Or perhaps High Justice Renzo would like to hear of those weasels you plan to torture in the Martyr's Glade a few days from now?" The Seer fox did not revel in his king's shocked expression. "Wherever there is great pain or grief or rage, I can see it. Even if it hasn't even happened yet. Did you really think that skinning a creature would escape my inner eye?" The fox turned his back to his King. "I am not a beast to cross, Rundy. I can see that which you would believe is nonexistent. Take my word or listen not!"

"You've gone mad…completely, truly insane!"

Terbin grabbed the vole by his cloak, frothing at the mouth with the injustice of it. "You simple dolt! Maybe you should shoulder my burden for a season! I have beheld more pain and misery that even the most battle-hardened Hordemaster! There's been more blood spilled in my mind than on the paws of the deadliest assassin! I have watched innocent beasts die in ways too gruesome to imagine, in numbers too great to comprehend! And you believe I am mad? There is not a creature in the East outside of the Sok'oi who could remain sane under the cruelty of it all!"

"Guards! _Guards!_" yelped Runderan. Terbin threw the vole to the floor and stormed out of the throne room, emanating an aura of rage that been better fit a Badger Lord in Bloodwrath.


End file.
